admission
by basterd
Summary: additional short stories about rick and vyv. contains consensual aggression.
1. bash

[AN: yeah, 20 chapters seemed enough so let's start again. this one was 21 so i moved it. beating up stuff. cool.]

* * *

Vyvyan's skull is crunching against the gravel and he's not moving, just staring with half-lidded eyes like he's tired or bored or Rick doesn't even know what, can't look properly because Vyvyan is just a blur, just a rag doll worried in the teeth of Rick's hands, ricocheting back again and again and again. The ligaments are pulling in Rick's arms, straining and he feels stiff, feels wooden, feels like his knuckles are splintering against Vyvyan's cheekbones, weeping resin, thick and dark and flecked across pale skin. Can't be blood because he's not real and Vyvyan isn't real, they're not human, they're not even animals, not matter just nothing, nothing, nothing. Just worthless.

A low noise escapes Vyvyan, like something turning off, the light in his head gone and he's still staring but he's not there, he's loose and heavy and it's not how he's supposed to be. Vyvyan's nose clicks on each impact, a misshapen mass pushed to the side and Rick hopes he can still feel it, hopes he's feeling anything at all because it's not fair, it's not fair that Rick is heaving on his own saliva, bile sitting in his throat like shame and it pushes at him, like he pushes at Vyvyan, cries out in the silence of Vyvyan's hands, the absence of the anger that once thrummed inside them. Vyvyan's teeth are occluding and he doesn't do a thing but for the hiccupping breath that tells Rick he's still alive.

'Please don't,' falls from Rick's mouth and Vyvyan's face turns away from it, throat pushing against the hold Rick has on his chain. Sweat slides from Rick's brow at the same time as bile spills forth, dribbling down his chin and all Rick can do is try to breathe, try to stop his fingernails from biting into Vyvyan's skin, from shaking him by the jaw with such aggression that Rick thinks it may dislocate, and they'll find his husk in the morning with torn skin and staring eyes and Rick's DNA congealing across his mouth and chin. 'Don't do this, not again.'


	2. not love

[AN: eyyyy. a dream i had. legit young ones dream. and it was lame.]

* * *

'Do you really not love me?'

Vyvyan put down the pickaxe wearily, smoothing away the debris and inadvertently transferring it to his face when he rubbed his knuckles across his brow.

'Rick, not now.'

'No, it's just… I've tried not to think about it like you said but I just want to know. I think you…' Rick swallowed loudly. 'I think you owe it to me.'

Vyvyan licked the drywall from his mouth and spat, staring at it for a long while. It was never easy with Rick. He didn't know how to be content. He wouldn't know what it was if it slapped him in the face, and Vyvyan had tried.

He shrugged his shoulders. 'What do you want me to say?'

'Why you don't love me.'

'I just don't. Why are you so obsessed with it? It shouldn't matter.'

'Shouldn't— Vyvyan! Vyvyan.' Rick's voice dropped pitch abruptly, blinking owlishly with his jaw clenched. 'Could you. Just tell me that. Could you? At least say you can pretend, sometimes.'

'I don't need to pretend, Rick. I like you, I'm with you, girlish nonsense doesn't have to play a part in that.' Vyvyan grabbed at the back of his hair where the gel was loose and it didn't matter to mess the mould, then set his palms out flat against the beam, inspecting the wall damage. 'It's been three years,' he began, throat dry and voice gruff. 'If I was going to, I think it would have happened by now.'

'Then why are you with me?'

Vyvyan's eyes rolled up, head shaking as he ran his fingers around the jagged edge of the hole. It had been going somewhere, he was looking for something, he just couldn't remember what. He half-expected Rick to lay a hand on him, but he could hear the shuffling of Rick's feet and Rick had kept his distance.

'When you could find someone else. Who you could love.'

Low, bitter, so very unlike Rick. The man inside the boy. Vyvyan grinned weakly, all teeth and no sentiment. He didn't turn his head.

'Because,' he said neutrally, grin growing in spite. 'I don't think anyone else would love me.'

Rick still didn't touch him. It put Vyvyan on edge, not being able to predict him.

'You're with me because I love you.'

'Yes.'

'And that's it.'

Vyvyan sighed, turning his head to glance at Rick over his shoulders. 'Don't turn this into a mountain, Rick. I hate you at times, yeah, but I'm happy with you. Nothing's different than yesterday or last month. You're not the one going the distance, I'm meeting you halfway, okay? I'm in this relationship, I just don't— It doesn't— I don't love you. That's all.'

'Right.'

Vyvyan spun back toward the wall, picking at the plaster.

'Thanks for that, then. Good to know where I stand.'

'Rick,' Vyvyan groaned, forehead falling against the wall. The jolt of the door slamming made debris trickle down into his eyes.


	3. sky

[AN: seems i'm writing a lot of these aggro things these days.]

* * *

'Don't,' Rick cries. Soft like a newborn pup. His eyes closed like some sort of fucking metaphor except that they are closed, dust down his face, debris in his hair. Hands shaking by his sides and they were in Vyvyan's a moment ago, being pulled from beneath a mass of plaster. Quick enough to pull him before it fell but Vyvyan waited.

He loves Rick, he told himself out loud in the safety of his car, blood in his mouth and darkness without the aid of headlights stoking the thrill of never quite knowing when he'll die. It might be better than spending the rest of his life with Rick, but he finds he wants to. He wants to spend his days with Rick. He wants to die with Rick. He wants to decide when. He hesitates because he's never sure and it burns like fire inside his head. He's so fucking angry all the goddamn time.

Vyvyan's lip shakes and it doesn't stop. His fingers clamped over it and it won't stop. He's going to cut it off. He's going to bite if off, he's going to fucking bite his own fingers off and then he's going to find some grass and lie down and wait to bleed out. It's a slow, slow process but Vyvyan's wants to see the sky. That's all he wanted. Broken ceramic and crushed brick, he just wanted to see the sky.

'Don't,' Rick says again and he might try to stop Vyvyan who is scratching at his knuckles, tearing dead skin and it flakes like scales, like nail, he's digging and Rick might try to stop him but he doesn't know. He knows that they end up in Rick's mouth, pushing to the back and Rick is choking. Gagging with his hands around Vyvyan's wrist and his eyes wide and wet like an exotic animal. There's nothing exotic about Rick. He comes exactly as you see him and he comes exactly as he sees you. Fucking hair-trigger and if Vyvyan is going to die today then he's glad he had a taste.

Sweat on Rick's forehead and it turns the dust to paste. Tribal, ritualistic, like humanity started and how it might end. Vyvyan scratches at it until it's gone, just raw and red and pure like it should be, like Vyvyan needs it to be. Rick bubbles at his mouth and his nose, saliva and mucus and everything that fascinates Vyvyan, gushing from him, twisting around Vyvyan's arm and it's so thick, like placenta, like something disgusting and safe that Vyvyan wants to be inside. Rick sings like a bird, high tribbles and torn inhales. It hits a beat, it's a game. Vyvyan nods in time and pushes until soft warmth turns thinner and he grazes his nails. Tear it down from the inside. Tear it all down. Be under the sky when it ends.


	4. drabbles

[AN: hm, drabbles.]

* * *

The rope is coarse, thrice braided, wound over the thickest part of the radius on Rick's wrist. Vyvyan had threaded it through the middle and Rick had pulled it tight with his teeth. The tail hangs caught between the fingers on Rick's right hand, damp and sticky. Blood congealing, dark and crusted beneath his fingernails. Staining the skin. And he drips. Drips. Drips.

It trickles down the side of Vyvyan's head, a phantom prickle, an itch. His shoulder twitches but his hands don't move, clasped over Rick's jaw, and his mouth feels different from this angle. Moves slower, full and heavy, and his head is so warm, his face flushed. Vyvyan wants to feel it when it grows cold and still, dry to his bones. Vyvyan wants to wear him. He wants to consume him.

It comes from Rick's stomach, weeping thin and then dribbling globules, running down his torso and around his neck. Down the sides of his arms, to his fingers, into nothing. Into the universe. Onto dirty floorboards thick with grime. Vyvyan's space. Vyvyan's territory.

Until Rick is rigid, his life seeping beneath the door, onto the landing. Until they find Vyvyan, holding him close, saying his prayers.

* * *

Mr Morrison stalks the room languidly, like a large cat with heavy limbs, flexing its muscles. The flickering lights of the lecture theatre cast shadows across his face, splotches of blue and purple, bruised under his eyes, under his chin. He looks dangerous. He looks murderous.

He is so tempting that Rick can barely feel himself breathing. Not until he's got Mr Morrison's breathy gasp in his ear, pulling his face away from Rick's fingers and Rick puts them elsewhere, where Mr Morrison will relax into them. The blue looks pale under steady light but it's there, it's all over him, like ink and Rick tries to rub it onto himself but it stays, it stays, it stays.

And Mr Morrison's mouth opens to let his pride hiss from his lips and the darkness reaches in, so stark, so clear. A space, along the line of his upper teeth. A gap, and Rick wants to put his tongue to it but that's not allowed. That's been drilled into Rick. You want it, come get it, boy, like a dog. He's a dog, he can be a dog.

Rick scheduled the appointment for him, beckoned back after class, breathing down the phone to the dentist with Mr Morrison's hands on his shoulders, large, kneading. Vibrating in his throat. _Richard, _like he's something special. Like it's enough to warm him on the walk home.

Black and blue thrown over his bedroom, a broken light bulb and a half moon to guide his footsteps. To the bedpost, to his pillow, starched cotton against his cheek. A tooth, small, inconspicuous, wrapped safely inside Vyvyan's handkerchief.

* * *

_Created man in the image of himself. _Neil's neck tips, Adam's apple caught against his throat. Gazing upward and his eyes are bright, wet, he feels so light. _In the image of God, _wicked and unholy but for his knees against stone, fingers folded together against his chest. Beating in segments, in decades, like the beads around his hands. Looking up to where the light casts down over the body of Christ, arms spread against the cross. _In his image. _Pierced by his hands. _He created them._

* * *

He feels skeletal. Hollow inside his clothes, rattling, not right. He knocks because he can't remember if he lives here, or if he belongs. Vyvyan opens the door. Vyvyan doesn't catch him when his knees give out and he buckles onto the floor, bones splaying, trying to suck in air around the dense atmosphere.

Vyvyan steps over him and he lies until the pain creeps up to his brain, distant but persistent, from the shock of his knees against wood. He lifts himself slowly, a puppet rising. The front door is open, it breathes cool over his scalp. His essence cut away from him in spite by the cold hand of his mother.

When he reaches the top landing, Vyvyan is standing, orange caught in his fists, breathing heavily. His chest pulls in and tugs Neil along with it, until Vyvyan's head has to tip to see him, and Neil can place his fingertips against a lost tattoo.


	5. throat

[AN: this has no context.]

* * *

Vyvyan's lip trembles. He's just tired, he's so tired and this isn't like him. It's exhaustion. It's tension breaking down his immune system. He knows that, he knows that, but it's leaking from him. Throat tight, vision swimming. It's not like him.

'Vyvyan?'

He doesn't call back. Squeezes his eyes shut and pushes wet palms over them.

'Vyvyan, thank god. I've found Neil, he's okay, are you— Vyvyan.'

He opens one eye, head leaning down on his shoulder. He lets his hands fall, trying to push it back in. He's meant to be holding it closed.

'Don't move,' Rick says, some sort of whisper, statuesque and watching. His face is ashen. 'What happened, don't move, what happened.' A tenuous step forward, words soft, calm. 'What have you done.'

Vyvyan doesn't know what organ it is, hot and slick in his hand. He couldn't see because he was trying to keep it in, because he can't see, because he's tired. They slip inside him, sliding over each other toward the point of least pressure, the opening held closed by shaking fingers.

'Neil's okay,' he shudders out.

Rick has been moving. His hand presses firm over Vyvyan's, the other holding his shoulder. When Vyvyan's head jerks, his blinking rapid, Rick rubs his knuckles harshly on Vyvyan's sternum. It makes his shoulders tighten. His blood begins to pump again.

'Stay awake and we can help you, okay?'

Rick's face is so close, so still and so white. Vyvyan lips tremble until his jaw aches and it all spills from him, loud stricken sounds that he can't pull back, can't hold in by pressure and faith. Rick's face presses alongside his, whispering something or just breathing. It's either him or Vyvyan, it's got to be one of them.

_It'll be okay, it'll be okay, it'll be okay._


	6. ritualistic

[AN: haaaaa character death, yo.]

* * *

The light flickers over the contours of Neil's face, making it look gaunt and hollow. Rick's heart jumps at the sight of it. So open, so empty. He thinks they could hide it in there, maybe. Afterwards, when the evidence needs to disappear. A lot of things can disappear inside Neil.

'I don't think we should wait,' Neil says, low and calm, but his voice crackles in the damp space. Too much echo, too much reverberation. It's not as distorted as the laugh Vyvyan emits, shaking inside the walls of Rick's head.

'Who wants the role,' Vyvyan rasps in a whisper. He's looking at Rick, eyelids twitching in the lowlight. He looks warm, sleepy. His smugness seeps from his skin, and Rick thinks he can feel its heat, unless it's just his own blood rushing inside his arms. Anxious to get down to his fingers, to be the first cells there, to be the ones who do it. Rick's blood is hungry.

'You,' Rick says, because he thinks Vyvyan expects it. The line of Vyvyan's teeth runs straight, ear to ear. Beneath it is just dark, cast down over his neck. Rick tries not to focus on the line, to let his peripherals move it down and imagine it splitting skin. Ear to ear, that's how he wants to do it.

Vyvyan shakes his head, loose and slack like some demented creature of carnival lore. His finger wags at Rick. Rick thinks Vyvyan's pleasure may overcome him.

'You can, Rick. I know you've been choking for it. You'd die to get your grubby paws on it.'

Rick can hear his own breathing, heady and laboured. Neil is almost watching him, eyes not quite focussed. His hand comes slowly to his mouth, the pads of his fingers dragging over his bottom lip. Rick's chest expands, full and warm.

'Ruff,' Vyvyan barks, irises near black with dilation.

Neil inhales and stands straight, fingers falling. 'You can do it, then,' he says to Rick. 'Since you're having it.'

'I want to do it,' Rick says, too quickly and too eager. Vyvyan's shoulders are moving, a constant lulling of bone, his feet capering. He won't be with them too much longer, he's going to reach supernova soon. 'I'm doing it,' Rick asserts, because he can. He's taking it, he's got ownership it. Top dog, top dog, top dog. Vyvyan's bark resonates in his ears.

It's Neil's knife, held in still, tranquil hands. When he puts it in Rick's, he wraps his fingers around and adds pressure until the handle digs into Rick's palm.

'Hold it tight.' His eyes move slowly from Rick's face, down, down. 'Goodbye,' he says. It's peaceful, a soothing balm over Rick's hammering heart. Vyvyan bends, kissing long and wet over the duct tape. Rick doesn't know what to do when it's his turn. He turns the knife idly in his hand and grips again. In the end, he settles with a firm nod.

The blade slices like the best wet dream Rick has ever had, slow and smooth, ear to ear. Blood spurts, and Rick does love that word so very much, unevenly over his shirt, down his front. When he's done, he lifts a wet hand to pause Vyvyan. Vyvyan is fidgeting, fervent with desire to destroy Rick's masterpiece with tearing fingers. He can, in a moment. Not just yet.

Rick pulls the glasses off slowly, pleasure licking up his spine when he sees that Mike's eyes are still open, staring past the earthly plane, like Neil said they would. Neil told them a lot of things. That Mike's joints would lock, that his skin would discolour and grow rigid, hard. Cold. That was what struck Rick the most, deep in his stomach.

'Mike the cool person,' he says under his breath, and laughs.


	7. doggish

[AN: cannibalistic dog thing maybe]

* * *

People think it's a sex thing.

Rick pushes his hands into wet hair, tousling, scratching his fingers. He tips his nose down and smells cheap bar soap, chemical and potent, not quite enough to mask the boot polish Vyvyan mixes into his gel. Vyvyan tips his head back into Rick's hands, eyes half-closed, jaw set and grimacing in the twisted smile Vyvyan opts to support these days. A low noise rumbles from within him. Rick breathes in deep and stills his fingers, braced alongside Vyvyan's temples, gripping perhaps a little too hard.

'Good boy,' he says quietly.

It's not a sex thing.

Vyvyan's eye will twitch if he holds it open too long, if Rick holds it open for him and blows gently, or tips Vyvyan's chin up to the sun. If Vyvyan concentrates then his jowls will grow slack, saliva dripping down in long threads. Sometimes he fakes it, hollow grin on his face, twisting his head like he's trying to dislodge the voices, staggering forward like a creature drunk or feral. He'll do it especially if children are around, when he's feeling brave with Rick at his back. Rick's index finger always outstretched, coat cuff loose around his wrist, ready to snap and bring Vyvyan back to his heels.

Vyvyan isn't always there. Rick knows when to push him and when to let it lie. Vyvyan in a foul mood obfuscates his loyalties. Vyvyan doesn't want to be king but in his own home he needs to uncoil himself, let his spine stretch up straight again. He will find Rick when he's ready, always. Appearing like a shadow at Rick's shoulder, quiet or snarling and rarely anything else. His happiness feeds from the thrill, leaking out in moments alone. Never in public. Not where the image is paramount.

Vyvyan's eye spasms and he dribbles. Slobbering mutt, Rick might call him later, with his hand on Vyvyan's neck, or Vyvyan's skull firm under his palm. Now is not the time, with three lowlifes prowling around Rick, thick-headed taunts on their tongues. Rick's spilt beer on their shoes, the pub at their backs. Vyvyan's spine thrusts along the inside wall of his flesh, a creature in its own right, some obscure hint at mythology along the line of nodes. He doesn't mirror them, stands still instead with his hands lax by his sides, chest expanding and compressing, breath rattling from a cold not long passed.

'Down, boy,' Rick hisses into the cool air. He feels Vyvyan's body angle more toward him, hunching in faux capitulation. They've played this game before.

One of the lackeys moves forward. Vyvyan is not altogether very fast in his movements, but he is smooth and purposeful, one hand jammed high beneath the guy's chin and the other pushing him by the chest to the ground. Vyvyan will bite flesh. Vyvyan will bite anything, whether it tears or not. Rick wonders sometimes how many skin cells Vyvyan has accidentally swallowed, how much DNA resides in his iron-filled stomach. When it comes out of his mouth as a mangled mass, Rick tries to imagine how much is left behind.

In the safety of dark, four walls and a dirty duvet over him, Rick will think very hard about it. Vyvyan thinks he wanks to it, head always lifting from a throat or arm or shoulder, expression too maniacal to truly look smug. Rick tensed and breathing hard, watching with careful eyes, he doesn't blame Vyvyan for thinking that. It's not about Vyvyan, it never has been. It's the act. In the safety of four walls, Rick doesn't touch himself. Not for that. The second he defiles it in his mind is the second it loses its power, and Rick needs it to hold that power. For one day. The day when he lets it happen to him.

The lads run off, loud slurs and swearing, their friend limp in Vyvyan's hold. It's an image, mostly. The guy will be fine, a flesh wound and a nasty shock to the heart. They'll find him by daylight and he'll be right as rain, Rick somewhere on the other side of town with his hands in his pockets and his boy lumbering behind. Rick looks too weak for blame to ever take hold, and if someone points out Vyvyan, well. With his shoulders straight, his glasses on, Vyvyan knows how to weasel out of any charge. It's part of the thrill, getting away with it. Sprawling over the couch at home with Mike upstairs and Neil outside and Rick leaning over him, smoothing his palm gently over Vyvyan's forehead, murmuring 'well done, well done, well done.'


End file.
